They left Amsterdam Centraal at 10 a.m. Julian didn't say much, just lit a cigarette on the platform. The wind scattered the smoke quickly.
Tomasz complained about how old the train cars were while checking Utrecht landmarks on his phone, trying to figure out whether the city was part of "East Holland" or "Central Holland."
Julian didn't explain. He took the window seat and stared out as the canals and red brick rooftops slid by in reverse.
Once they arrived in Utrecht, they checked into a quiet boutique hotel. The floors were pale wood, the sofa minimalist, and the window framed the city's clock tower.
Julian nodded and said he had an appointment with an old friend.
He didn't mention that the "friend" was a therapist.
Utrecht.
An old house with a brass plaque that read MindSpace Kliniek.
Julian sat in a gray armchair, holding a cup of chamomile tea he hadn't touched. His coat lay across his knees, eyes drifting toward the window.
The walls of the room were painted a pale green. In the corner stood a dated floor lamp. The therapist, a Dutch man in his fifties with round glasses and a cashmere sweater, spoke slowly.
"What brings you here today, Mr. Watanabe?"
Julian didn't answer right away. He glanced at his watch, then looked up at the lamp.
It took a while before he finally spoke, voice low.
"Something happened in Amsterdam."
The doctor nodded, waiting.
Julian placed the cup down and tapped a finger against the rim.
"During a retreat. I saw someone. A woman."
He paused. "Not real. At least not then."
The therapist didn't interrupt. He drew an unreadable line across his notepad.
Julian looked back toward the window.
"She didn't have a name at first. Then one came to me. Aria."
He gave a small smile, soft as breath.
"I think… she's from the end of my story."
The therapist finally asked, "And what does that mean?"
Julian didn't respond. He slowly reached into his jacket pocket and took out a crumpled slip of paper, smudged by fingerprints and water stains. Three letters were still barely visible.
"Sometimes, I wonder if I work in finance… or if I'm just decoding a prophecy that was never mine to begin with."
He slid the paper back into his pocket.
Then he looked up, gaze clear and hollow.
"I need to know… if seeing her was madness, or something I should follow."
The doctor didn't answer. He simply wrote down one quiet line.
On the other side of town, Tomasz had plans for his own kind of field work.
He wanted to rent a bike and explore the city.
He stood in front of a rental kiosk in the city center for three full minutes, trying to figure out the payment screen. He thought his English was decent until "OV-fiets," deposit card, and the OV-chipkaart registration flow made him break into a mild procedural panic.
In the end, he gave up on the kiosk and walked into the shop, lowering his voice at the counter.
"Do you have, um, a normal bike? Like… for one day?"
The shopkeeper smiled. "You mean for tourists?"
He nodded.
Eventually, he got on a heavy city bike and started following the "Utrecht Museum Loop" route. His phone was strapped to the handlebars like a shaky GoPro. The first stop was the Centraal Museum. He told himself this was part of his "cultural research."
But he kept getting distracted. Why could Julian act like this, like some divine lunatic? They came from similar math backgrounds, both British, but not quite the right kind. So why did he feel this strange mix of envy and loyalty?
Halfway through the route, his GPS suddenly glitched. He followed the turn and ended up riding onto a tramline.
From behind, a Dutch uncle shouted in perfect English, "Mate! That's a tramline!"
He jumped off and walked the bike out, embarrassed.
On the way back to the city center, a side wind pushed him onto the sidewalk. He braked too hard, the front wheel twisted, and he landed flat in front of a vintage shop.
The shop owner poked his head out, cigarette in mouth. "You okay?"
Tomasz stood up, brushed off the dust, and muttered, "Yeah. Just… not biking here again."
A few hours later, after wandering most of the city center, he got a voice memo from Julian:
"Done with the therapist. Felt like brainwashing, but maybe I was broken already. Let's go eat."
Julian had made a reservation. Not company-assigned, not randomly picked. The restaurant was called Restaurant Karel 5, one of the rare fine-dining spots in Utrecht. It was housed in a historical building, lit with chandeliers, surrounded by water features. The servers moved quietly.
They arrived twenty minutes early. Tomasz had changed shirts but still looked nervous walking in. He glanced at the menu prices, then at the tablecloths and glassware, whispering:
"This feels like somewhere you come with a girlfriend. Not with your insane boss."
Julian didn't respond. He was already looking at the wine list.
When it came time to order, he went straight for the chef's tasting menu, with wine pairings. Tomasz wanted to go à la carte, but ended up matching the order.
The server poured the wine at the table. Julian picked up the glass, sniffed it, and gave a small nod.
By the second main course, Tomasz finally relaxed a little. He set down his fork and looked across the table.
"Before we go back to London, we should align our story, right?"
Julian still had a piece of beef in his mouth, chewing slowly. He nodded, finished his water, and wiped his mouth.
"You write your version. I'll write mine."
Then he added, "Just don't forget to attach the PDF. Otherwise, legal's going to bug us."
Tomasz nodded. He looked down at his plate and suddenly lost his appetite.
After dinner, they ran into each other in the hotel lobby and agreed to leave together the next morning.
The next day, they headed to Amsterdam Airport. Julian lingered in the duty-free area for a while before choosing a Rolex.
He said it was a souvenir for his wellness leave.
At checkout, he kept the receipt for expense reporting.
That afternoon, they didn't go back to the office together. Julian said he was heading home to organize some meeting notes.
Tomasz said he'd stop by the office to catch up on emails.
Three days later, both reports were on Greg's desk.
Greg sat in the meeting room flipping through them for ten minutes. His face got darker as he read.
Julian's report focused on anonymous structured liquidity sandbox models (basically, how to microdose legally in Europe).
Tomasz's report was practically a travel blog disguised as financial fieldwork.
Still, both included detailed expenses: business class, fancy hotels, retreat, fine dining, and the Rolex.
Greg sighed. He didn't say anything.
Just nodded and signed the expense forms.
The whole trip cost forty thousand pounds.
He knew there was no stopping it now.